


Win-a-date With Jack Zimmermann

by Folieacutie



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, Auction AU, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, jack is awkward and anxious but he is as always 110, the not-really-a-date that makes them want it to be a date, yes its that one from tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 21:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10049069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Folieacutie/pseuds/Folieacutie
Summary: An Auction AU in which Bitty somehow saves NHL Falconers Leading Scorer Jack Zimmermann from a date with an old lady in a leopard print jumpsuit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on my tumblr (samwellbittty), and someone requested I post it on AO3, so! Here it is! I hope you guys enjoy this extremely self-indulgent fic. It's based off a prompt from robinminustherichard on tumblr: "Okay but where is my meet cute AU where the Falcs do a “win a day with a falconer” auction and Jack is being bid on and my child looks so awkward and slightly terrified, gets won by mysterious gentleman in the back and silently dreads the day he’ll have to spend with this guy only to realize the guy is the most angelic southern cutie he’s ever seen, who bid on him because “sweetheart you looked so scared that 80-year old widower in the Leopard jumpsuit was going to win you I had to bid”???????"

Jack knows this is part of their “make Jack Zimmermann into an actual-human” plan, that it’s good for press, for the team, and for charities. That doesn’t mean it’s any less intimidating. It sort of helps that Tater and Poots are in the same boat, but only for the weeks leading up to, not when he’s seconds away from standing on a stage and being _bid on_.  

“You will do good, Zimmbonni!” Tater had clapped his back. Jack took a moment to wince and roll out his shoulder while they filed out of George’s office, the knowledge of this event making Tater grin like a child and Poots blush. “Maybe take off shirt, have girls bid, yes?”

At that, Poots had laughed, “With that face he won’t have to, Tates.”

Tater stopped Jack in his tracks and grabbed his cheeks, “Maybe smile then, ok?”

“Okay.”

Two weeks ago the “okay” had come with a good natured eye-roll, now it came with quivering hands and a hard-set face.

“Smile! People like Zimmbonni!”

_Do they, though?_

Of course, Tater volunteered to go first. He pushed back the Falconer-blue curtain with a flourish and stepped out into the flashes of hundreds of cameras, his appearance met with wild applause. Before the curtain swept closed again Jack saw Tater in a frenzy, bounding out to wave both hands towards the crowd.

Jack lurched back to avoid being seen too early.

Thus began the wait. While they stood in the dark of backstage and listened to a man yell, “Six-hundred? Do I hear a six-fifty?” Jack focused on keeping his breath steady and his hands loose.

“Ready for this?” Poots played with his cuff links, “’Cause I’m sure as hell not.”

Jack huffed. “Unless you’re Tater I wouldn’t expect you to be.”

Some personnel came by, looked them both up and down, and began fiddling with Poot’s hair, then his tie. “You’re up next.” She told him, and lined him up behind the parting of the drapes. Poots looked back at Jack with a queasy smile.

“You’re going to do great, Poots.” Was all Jack could get out of his throat. He still gave Poots a thumbs up, hoping the kid didn’t trip over the curtains on the way out.

 _Crisse, I hope_ I _don’t trip on the curtains on the way out…_

Luckily, Poots made it onto the stage unscathed, if not a little pink in the face. His entrance wasn’t as enthusiastic as Tater’s but Jack knew his shy grin and young appearance would make him desirable enough.

As the minutes passed Jack didn’t even hear the rest of the bids; his ears were full of so much white noise. 

_All you have to do is stand there. That’s all you have to do. Stand there and smile. Stand there and smile. People like you. People-_

“Step over here, please,” someone veered him by his elbow. All that filtered through the panic was the realization that the drapes were made of velvet.

“Mic 2 ready? Good. Okay. And…go.” The person gave him a little push.

He lifted his arm and ducked through, immediately barraged with blinding white.

 

* * *

 

“I swear, if you don’t get a date with Mashkov I’m gonna throw you a pity-kegster. Just so you’ll finally shut up.”

“Man, we need weeks of planning for that, we can’t pull shit like that on the  _fly_ -”

“You’re going to need it, Ransom!”

Bitty let them bicker, content to fuss over wrapping up his mini pies. He figured a pie as a thank-you gift was never a bad thing (even for an NHL player), or, realistically, some comfort food for his teammates if they lost. According to Shitty though they should be used to win the auction since they’re the "best fucking orgasm-inducing slivers of euphoria a motherfucker can ever hope to consume.”

“I appreciate the compliment Shitty, but I don’t think they’re allowed in an official auction.”

“They fuckin’ should be then. Plus, it’s a  _hockey_  auction. Since when has anything official in hockey made sense? The world cup had teams North America and Europe for fucks sake.”

Bitty laughed and tied a red bow around the package. “I just hope those boys have enough money to bid for Mashkov. Lord knows how much Ransom thirsts after that man.”

Lardo came in, car keys jingling in hand, “Nah they don’t. They’ll just make up for it with enthusiasm and desperation.” She let Shitty kiss the crown of her head before turning and saying, “car’s ready.”

All the boys, minus the frogs and tadpoles, crammed into the car and headed down to Providence.

“Okay so that makes five hundred and ten. Do you have that three hundred from Bingo weekend?”

“You guys won three hundred dollars from _Bingo_?” Shitty interjected.

“No I thought you had it-”

“Oh shit… I stuck that under the mattress.”

Lardo narrowed her eyes and looked in the rearview mirror, “Do I have to turn around the car? Seriously?”

Twenty minutes late, nearly out of gas, holding three semi-organized heaps of money and a jar of coins adding up to exactly forty-three dollars and twelve cents, the group lurched to a stop in the farthest row of a packed parking lot.

“Do you think they started yet? They couldn’t have, right? These things never start on time, right?”

“Chill out, Rans. It’s gonna be fine.”

“It is  _not_ going to be fine if-“

“Y’all, get your hockey-butts out of this car, you’re squishing the pies!”

They hauled open the double doors to the arena and squeezed through security with their tickets. As expected, people filled every inch of the large room. The main lights remained on for people to mill about and the stage’s curtain showed no sign of movement. All chairs in the front were occupied so the group scurried to the back.

Watching his friends scramble to organize their money again, Bitty checked on his wallet in his back pocket. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure if he’d bid on anyone, in fact he wasn’t planning on it. Having some cash on hand never hurt though, even to simply help out Ransom and Holster.

Suddenly the crowd’s loud hum reduced as the lights dimmed. Ransom and Holster continued their movements, except more frantically than before (“Shit I can barely see, where’d the five go?"). Then a spotlight shone on center stage.  

“Welcome to the third annual Falconer’s Auction!” A bald man in a suit stood illuminated on the platform, his mustache a rival to Shitty’s. “This year we’re auctioning off dates with three players for charities of their choice! The date activities are pre-set and tailored to each Falconer, although they all involve some capacity of ice-time. During the bidding please keep the shouting to a minimum… and the checking.” The crowd laughed, and he began rattling off a series of rules that Bitty barely listened to, since Holster hauled him into their money counting mess.

The moment Ransom ticked off the last bill, the announcer let out the magic words: “It’s our pleasure to welcome Providence Falconer  _Alexei Mashkov_!”

Alexei leaped onto the stage and the entire room erupted.

“HolY SHIT, THERE HE IS! THERE HE IS!”

With a fond smile Lardo said, “There’s that enthusiasm,” before jumping into some of the cheering herself.

Luckily Ransom didn’t have enough time to start foaming at the mouth because the announcer quieted everyone down.

 

 

They lost the bid.

Even after adding in Bitty’s offer, the other bidder had jumped to an obscene amount (four thousand dollars) that none of them could match.

“Sorry bro.” Holster curled Ransom into his chest. “That’s some bonafide bullshit right there.”  

Shitty babbled on about “blood-thirsty corporations masquerading as fans,” but the Samwell’s Men Hockey team stayed. They were not going to pass up the opportunity of seeing real pro’s in the flesh, not when they had paid for those tickets too.

The rookie’s round went pretty quick. Poots seemed cute in a young cherub way, Bitty thought. A red haired girl got him and she cried and shrieked and cried some more. By the time the player was coming down the steps to meet her she could barely wipe her tears away fast enough.

“That was cute.”  

“Not cuter than how  _I_ would have cried If I got Alexei.” Ransom muttered. Holster nodded very seriously and continued to rub his back. “Bonafide bullshit,” He repeated, glaring into the distance.

When Jack Zimmermann hesitantly stepped out, Bitty felt like he’d been decked into the boards.

“ _Lord_ , he’s attractive.”  

Shitty even let out a whistle. “If I wasn’t tragically heterosexual…”

Bitty was in fact  _not_  tragically heterosexual, and was showcasing it pretty well by how he couldn’t stop staring. Could you blame him, though? Jack’s shoulders were broad and his suit accentuated his features to make every line of his torso sharper, plus those pants with those thighs…

Jack, uncertain of what to look at, turned towards the announcer and-  _that ass_.

Predictably, the cheers grew louder.

He tensed, his head whipping to the audience like he didn’t expect them to be so loud, and jammed his hands in his pockets.

“Jack Zimmermann is number 1 on the Falconer’s team in terms of points, assists, and jersey number!” The bald man said.

Girls in front of Bitty already started grabbing their purses. 

“A date with this player includes ice time and the bidder’s food of choice, though Jack does insist on it having a lot of protein.”

After a few more details, the bidding began. Every time someone raised the amount Jack’s eyes would swivel to them, his brows going from very raised to brooding, as if he wasn’t sure how to react.

“Poor fucker.” Shitty murmured, “Looks lost up there.”

He did, Bitty agreed, his own eyebrows drawn together in worry. It could have been the heat from the lights, but Bitty was pretty certain Jack’s forehead was sweating from nerves.

It didn’t get any better. In fact, it got worse; once the amount rose, this one old lady in a horrific leopard print jumpsuit kept outbidding the rest.

Jack looked truly panicked; he was practically wringing his hands.

Bitty knew he didn’t have a lot of money alone, and the lady would probably outbid him in a second. Still he clutched his wallet, staring at it.

“Five hundred dollars!” Came out of Bitty’s mouth. Because he was an idiot.

All of his friends gaped at him.

“ _Yo_ , Bits. Get it!”

The auctioneer began his ramble again, “I hear five hundred! Five hundred going once-”

“Five-fifty!” The croaking old lady lifted her hand.

What small amount of hope that glimmered in Jack’s blue eyes vanished.

A little more defeated than he’d like to admit, Bitty resigned to slip his wallet back when Ransom slammed a wad of cash into Bitty’s palm. “Do what you must.” He met his gaze, “You’re the only reason we don’t starve anyway.”

“Plus,” Holster leaned in, “If you win the date with Zimmermann perhaps you can get us Mashkov’s number.”

Thus began another bidding war. Ransom and Holster kept handing him more cash until they too ran out.

Bitty noticed Jack gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down when the old lady fished out some more money and yelled her number. It was such a small amount higher. They were so close.

_That poor boy…_

The man called the amount, “Going once!”

“Do you think they’d accept my pie as part of the bid?” Bitty squeaked.

“Twice!”

“Doesn’t hurt to try, bro.” Lardo placed one of them in his hand.

Bitty accepted that answer and shot his hand in the air, “Two thousand dollars! And a homemade apple pie!”

As victorious as it felt to say it, he was met with confused silence.

Jack looked into the crowd, eyes searching for his mysterious savior, and the announcer asked to no one in particular, “Uh…do we accept pies as payment?”

Jack whipped his head around. “Yes.”

It was the first time he’d spoken since coming onto the stage.

Bitty felt his heartbeat in his throat.

The auctioneer waited, eyebrows lifted. No one interfered.

“Okay…well…” He shimmied his shoulders back and belted, “Two thousand dollars and a homemade apple pie going once….going twice…sold to the man in red!”

 

And, suddenly, Bitty realized he had a date with NHL Providence Falconer Lead Scorer, Jack Zimmermann.


	2. The Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the fluff.....

   The relief only lasted so long once he realized that yes, no more old-leopard-print lady ( _thank god)_ , but still there’s a date with  _someone_. A stranger.

    Jack’s barely held decent conversations with his teammates, how would a date with a stranger work?

_It wouldn’t. No way._

   Feeling like he’d just survived a brutal game, Jack took a few seconds to gather himself. He wiped the condensation from his forehead (he really hoped no one had noticed), slowed his breathing, let his jaw unclench. Once his fingers became steady enough he fixed the cuffs of his uncomfortably hot suit.

   “Fuck it,” He shucked the jacket off entirely. It felt good until he lifted his arms- “Ugh.”

_Pit stains._

   For a moment he struggled with what to do:  _If I wear the jacket I’m uncomfortable and sweating more, but if I don’t people can see the sweat and thats embarrassing and-_

   “Jack!” Someone from management tapped his shoulder, “This way, the kid is waiting on stage right.” She gave him a brief once-over, “Put on the jacket.”

    With a somewhat relieved nod, he slipped the jacket back on and wished for a calmer heart-beat.

     The wish didn’t come true, of course. It rarely did.

    They approached the stairs leading off the stage.

_This kid must like you. They bid on you. They spent money for a date-thing-whatever with you. Just smile. Act like a normal-_

   “Hi!”

_-person._

   “Uh, hi.”

   The kid didn’t  _look_  like a kid. Well. He looked young, but not kid young. Early twenties, young.

   He was… _cute,_ Jack realized,with his blonde hair the color of honey, an oversized maroon sweatshirt that had Samwell written on the front. Despite them being dark, his eyes were bright and welcoming. The only sign of nervousness came from his hopping from foot to foot.

    Jack didn’t know it was possible, but he started sweating more. Which-  _sigh_ \- is exactly the moment the guy went in for a handshake.

   He complied, enjoying the feel of his small-but-firm hand in his and mentally chastising himself for such a thought.  _This is a fan. Be professional. Who cares if he has an adorable nose and nice hands?_

   “P- pleasure to meet you, Mr. Zimmermann-”

   “Jack.” He choked out.

_That’s professional. Friendly, but still professional._

   The guy smiled, full teeth, and Jack was hit with the realization that  _this guy bet two-thousand dollars to spend the day with you._

   “Eric Bittle, but everyone calls me Bitty,” his hand slipped away and he pulled out a tiny parcel, “I believe this is rightfully yours,” this time his grin was a touch sly.

  “Oh.” The pie. The pie that arguably saved Jack’s life.

   Jack knew he was awkward in most social situations; however, he wasn’t stupid enough to tell Bittle- Eric- Bitty- whatever- that his pie was not part of his meal plan.

  “Thank you.” He said instead, taking it. “Uh…you made it yourself?”

   “Sure did.”

  “Thank you.”

   “It’s apple.”

   “Thank you. I mean. Uh. Good.”  _Get a grip, Jack._

   “With cinnamon and enough butter that you better not tell your nutritionist about it.”

   Was Bitty teasing him?

   Jack only nodded, unsure of what to say. He managed a small chuckle.

  The conversation trickled into silence.

  Bitty sucked on his lip like he was deciding something. Then, with a deep breath he said, “Sweetheart you looked so scared that 80-year old widower in the Leopard jumpsuit was going to win you I  _had_  to bid.”

  Jack raised his eyebrows. A huff of a laugh escaped him. “Oh?”

  “I could see your life practically flashing before your eyes.”

  At that, Jack had to guffaw, and he was surprised at how loudly he did. “Er, aha, well…”

  Bitty waved his hand nonchalantly, “I’m sure she is a  _very_  nice woman, but those 5-inch acrylic nails were itching to get you, I just knew it.”

  “Yeah,” Jack rubbed the back of his neck, “yeah they definitely were…I’m glad you and your pie came to my rescue, then.”

  “Me too.”

   The small bout of silence that followed didn’t feel as uncomfortable as before and Jack let out an easy breath, happy to simply look at this golden boy. He opened his mouth to inquire about the impending date when someone beat him to the punch.

   “Hi Eric.” The events-coordinator piped up –  _had they been standing there the entire time?_  - “Now that we’ve counted and assured your bid-money, you’re set to figure out the second half of your date on the 28th. The ice time is mandatory, so if you need any lessons let us know-”

   Bitty smiled, “No lessons needed, ma’am.”

  “Awesome! The only thing with the meal is that it has to be local.”

   Jack briefly remembered nodding. In an excited flurry Bittle and the events coordinator discussed a plethora of different places, all of which Jack had never been to nor heard of. He realized, not for the first time, that he didn’t leave his house much.

   “Great!” The worker was shaking hands with Bitty, “We have all your contact information, so on the 28th just meet us back at the rink and Jack should be here to skate with you!”

     “Sounds good.”

        He turned to Jack and-

        Oh. Were they expected to hug…or something?

        Jack’s anxiety spiked, his shoulders tensing up; He always dreaded that awkward shuffle when someone goes for a handshake and the other goes for a hug.

        Luckily, the fan took mercy on him and put out his hand.

        Jack gulped and gripped it, smiling as much as he could. “Thanks for, uh, bidding on me. Saved my life.”

        “Well Mr. Zimmermann, if I saved your life you owe me big time.” He smirked jovially and shouldered his bag, looking over it while turning around. “I’ll see you in a few weeks?”

        Jack found himself waving and saying, “yeah,” but thinking _, I’ll make it up to you_ (and maybe- just maybe- that the guy had a very hold-able butt).

~~~

        Jack usually didn’t cheat his meal plan. He got an approved delivery service to his apartment every few weeks (except during roadies) with boring leafy-greens and even more boring grilled chicken and the  _most_  boring brown rice. It worked out for him. He couldn’t complain, really.

        “Fan made you pie. You eat the pie.” Tater shoved the box towards him.

        “I can’t, Tater.”

        They’d been going back and forth for the past five minutes.

        “Jesus, Zimmermann,” Snowy called from the back row, “just eat the fuckin’ pie and appreciate it.”

        “We have a game in less than 13 hours.” Jack deadpanned.

        “Fan made you  _pie_.”

        Marty leaned over his armrest and into the aisle, “I may be wrong, but weren’t you the one saying that pastry saved your life?” His grin was nothing short of shit-eating.

        Jack grumbled and rolled his eyes, neither confirming nor denying a thing.

       He didn’t eat the pie on the bus. He didn’t even think about it again until two days later when he got back home, dropping his bag in its designated spot on the floor and collapsing onto his sofa. It had been a ruthless few games, all harder than necessary. Still, the team had won them.

        Whatever moment of blissful stillness he had shattered when his stomach growled. Sighing, he rolled off the couch and dragged himself to the fridge.

       It was empty.

       Well, empty apart from some molding vegetables and a jar of strawberry jam without any bread to put it on. So yeah, empty.

        He considered downing a protein shake and calling it a day when he remembered the pie.

       Jack didn’t expect that he’d come home from a strenuous roadie to eat only dessert for dinner, but when he took the first bite he was so glad he didn’t settle for a protein shake.

~~~~~~

        The next day at practice the boys were back at it again, this time with more pleading involved.

        “Bring out the pie, okay? We won’t make you eat it.” Snowy tried while he slipped his pads on. The rest of them either snickered or nodded in agreement.

        “I can’t do that.”

        “Why not? If you won’t have it I guarantee the rest of us will, and we’ll  _enjoy_ it too.”

        “I can’t because there’s none left.”

        When everyone turned to look at him, Jack continued putting on his sock and mumbled, “…I ate it.”

        You’d think Jack just got a hatty for how much absolute commotion occurred in that locker room.

~~~~~~~

        When Jack made it to the rink on the 28th, an easy day sandwiched between two long roadies, he was nervous to see Bitty again.

        He was also nervous by how much he  _wanted_  to see Bitty again.

        Those brown eyes kept popping up in his dreams, and so did the lingering taste of pie. When reporters asked about the upcoming “date” during post-game interviews, Jack had given them his typical spiel of giving back to the community and “being happy to do it”. Internally though he was happy to do it- and extremely nervous.

        He rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants. Had he mentioned he was nervous?

        Bitty was already sitting inside the arena when Jack walked in. His head  down while he fiddled with his phone, seemingly at ease.

        “…Hey.” Jack stopped in front of him, holding his skates in hand, unsure of what to do next.

        “Oh!” Bitty looked up, beaming already.

        Jack’s (annoyingly overly-romantic) mind thought,  _he shines like the sun_. 

         “Sorry I didn’t see you walk in!” He stood up and shook Jack’s hand again and then began taking his own skates out of his bag.

        Jack sat down next to him, not trying to hide his surprise, “You own skates?”

        “Sure do, Mr. Zimmermann.”

        Jack started lacing up his own, “So do you come here often?”

        It took him a second to realize his casual line was actually a cliché come-on. He froze, the aglet of his laces in between his fingers.

        Bitty, again saving his life, smiled knowingly but let it go, not commenting on Jack’s suddenly red face. “Not here, no. I actually skate at my school’s rink.”

        “Oh.” Jack let out a breath and took that information in stride, “Samwell, right? You were wearing one of their sweatshirts when we met. My mom went there.”

        The surprised smile on Bitty’s face made Jack’s stomach feel warm.  _This is a fan,_  he reminded himself for the millionth time. The little voice was less insistent than it was a few weeks ago. 

        “Yeah! I’m on the hockey team.”

        He didn’t blurt out what he’s thinking which was,  _wow, really? Division 1, hockey?_ And _damn, of_ course _he does,_ but the first one must have showed on his face because the guy launched into a marathon of an explanation.

        “I know, yeah, I don’t _look_  like a hockey player. I’m a lot smaller than a lot of other forwards and I don’t have all the muscles, but I’m actually of average height for a normal-not-playing-hockey-guy, and believe me when I say I can kill a man in suicide drills and I can still skate and I can still score because even though I-”

        “ _Bittle_ , deep breaths.”

        He let out a weak laugh, “Oh. Yeah, sorry about that.”

       Jack smiled and, deciding to indulge himself, patted Bitty on the shoulder “It’s fine. Ready to hit the ice?”

~~~~

        If Jack thought Bittle was attractive before, it didn’t compare to how fucking hot it was to see him cross the entire rink in a blink of an eye, bringing the puck up the ice with such good stickhandling Jack couldn’t even do anything but stand still and watch.

        Bitty swung his arm back and sent the puck flying straight into the net.

        “Gorgeous.” Jack said, out of breath even though he had yet to do anything.  _Can you be any more pathetic?_

        Bitty hockey-stopped right in front of him, ice spraying up and hitting Jack’s skates, “Sorry, what was that?”

        “Nothing! You…you’re good on the ice.”

        He looked bashful, his eyes at the floor. “Why thank you.” Then he nudged Jack’s hip, “Well, aren’t you going to join me?”

        And so he did.

        Bitty had insisted on no checking. When asked about why, he gave a noncommittal shrug.

        Still, they played: They practiced passes and slapshots and one of them tried playing defense while the other tried scoring until they switched, and somewhere during all of it Jack’s laughter came as naturally as breathing (or rather blinking because sometimes it was still hard to breathe) while not feeling awkward at all,  _especially_  not when Bittle passed to him and he scored in the –albeit empty- net, over and over again, finding Bittle on the ice more easily than he would some of his teammates.

        He hadn’t had this much fun in…well, a long enough time that he didn’t remember the last time.

        “Would you mind if I switched over to figure skates?

        Jack spun to face him, in his hand the bucket full of recovered pucks,  “ _figure skates_?”

      _Was there_ anything _this guy couldn’t do?_

        “I brought them along just in case.” He walked off the ice, continuing to talk, “Lord knows I haven’t used them as much as I would have liked with so much hockey, you know, so my legs aren’t up for complex jumps,” Jack slid up to the edge and placed the bucket on the floor, observing as Bitty rambled on and tied himself into elegant figure skates.

        He shook out his legs a little before getting back into the rink and doing a few laps. Jack trailed him for a few, both taking it easy, until Bitty surged away.

        His eyes followed Bitty’s figure as he sped up, aiming for center ice just as he threw himself into the air, bringing his arms into his chest and twisting. He spun, once, twice, landed, hopped into a shorter spin, and came out of it with an extended leg, gliding backwards.  

        “I wobbled a little at the end but-”

        “I couldn’t tell.” Jack blurted.

        And suddenly Jack almost toppled over he was so stunned with the look of him, as if he’d been hit with a blinding light: Bitty’s face was flushed from the exertion, his tiny nose and cheeks adorably pink in the cold, hair mussed and sweaty. His brown eyes were twinkling with laughter, which, inexplicably, made Jack want to smile like an idiot. He didn’t realize until several seconds too late that Bitty had responded, probably because he was too busy thinking  _fuck_.

        “Uh. What?”

        “I said, do you want to learn a few tricks?”

        His logic behind saying yes is that he needed to work off that entire pie he ate last week.

          _Makes perfect sense._

~~~~

      This was not the stoic, tongue-tied Jack Zimmermann that Bitty had watched in millions of interviews, no ma’am (you better believe as soon as Bitty left the auction he shut himself into his room and googled the hell out of him). This Jack Zimmermann only had the same face (and ass) as the one on TV, for the one on the ice with Bitty was cackling and using dry humor, he was snarky and excitable when he made a goal past Bitty, he chirped him to hell and back whenever the opportunity presented itself, and he just looked so much more  _comfortable_.

      This Jack Zimmermann was having  _fun_.

 _Because of me._  The thought startled him. It thrilled him too.

     Yet he ruined it with what dropped out of his mouth next.

     “Uh. What?”

    Hoping he hadn’t crossed a line, Bitty repeated his question, “do you want to learn a few tricks?”

   Jack’s eyes lit up-  _As if they weren’t blue enough._

    So there was Eric Bittle, leading Jack Zimmermann across the ice with their hands linked until they reached the center.

    “Okay, here’s how you do a simple spin…” Bitty started him out. He went through the steps slowly. Jack watched him with a diligent eye and nodded after every explanation. Bitty admired his dedication for something as silly as an impromptu lesson.

    On the first try Jack wobbled and slipped, nearly falling. Bitty jolted. He grabbed his arm by the sleeve which barely kept Jack from ending up on his ass.

    On the next try he  _did_  end up on his ass.

    After the umpteenth attempt where he, also for the umpteenth time, had ended up on his ass, he made a disgruntled noise, “Look at this, I’m awful. I’m ruining the art of figure skating,” Jack mumbled, brushing ice chips off himself. He didn’t even try to get up again.

    “No,  _no_ , if you’d been learning ice skating for as long as you’ve been playing hockey, you’d be spectacular at it.” Bitty reached for him, “Here, lemme help-”

    “Oh uh-” Jack too was trying to get up.

   They collided and Jack fell over. Again.

   “Fuck-”

    Bitty smiled and put his hand out once more, “Maybe if your center of gravity wasn’t located in your big-” he realized his mistake too late, “uhm.”

    “My big…?” Jack smirked ( _deliciously_ ) and quirked an eyebrow.

     And.

     _Wow._

    That look was going to be the  _death_  of him. As if he hadn’t already evaded sleep with the thought of Jack looking at him like that. 

     “Oh hush up.” Bitty said, as much to himself as to Jack, “What were you saying about being terrible at figure skating again?”

~~~

        By the time they made it to the frozen yogurt place Bitty had almost completely forgotten his jitters about going on a date with Providence Falconer’s Leading Scorer Jack Zimmermann.

        Almost. Every time he saw Jack from the back he had no trouble remembering.

        Currently though, his focus was preoccupied with dozens of different frozen yogurt options.

       “They have pumpkin flavor now!”

        “Do they have anything low in sugar?”

        Bitty sighed. “I know your body is, like, ensured for thousands of dollars-”

        “-Millions-” 

        “-Okay,” He rolled his eyes, “ _millions_  of dollars, but that doesn’t mean you can’t afford to eat some regular frozen yogurt once in awhile, literally and figuratively.”

        Jack’s easy grin appeared, “Seeing as I already ate an entire pie a few days ago…”

        “The entire pie? Wow, you sure do go hard or go home, Mr. Zimmermann.”

         They both smiled.

        _I’d like to go home with you_ , was what they both thought, but neither said.

        Instead, Bitty chirped him about the pie, asked him how he liked it (knowing fully well he must’ve liked it enough to eat the entire thing), they filled up their yogurt cups (Bitty’s to the brim with both pumpkin and graham cracker flavors and Jack’s halfway with strawberry and  _gasp_  some drizzled walnuts) and sat down in a small table that forced them to brush shoulders.

        Jack was laughing. “I think Tater wants his own personal pie, to be completely honest.”

        Bitty suddenly remembered his promise to Ransom and Holster.

        “Speaking of Tater,” he played with his hands, “my two ridiculous friends lost the bid on a date with him, which is why I had enough money to bid on  _you_ , and they did it under the impression that I would maybe-  _possibly_ \- try and get Tater’s number for them- or, any way to contact him…?” To his embarrassment his voice went up at the end. “I can, um, exchange some pie for it.”

        “Bribery, Bittle? I thought you were above that.”

         Bitty rolled his eyes. “Ha ha. Very funny Jack.” He ignored the shocking warmth in his gut from Jack calling him Bittle. 

        “So they’re on the team with you?”

        “The best D-men we have.” Bitty said resolutely.

        Jack ate a spoonful of yogurt and shrugged, “I’m sure Tater wouldn’t mind giving them his official email or something. Sorry I can’t exactly give out his number-”

        “No, no! It’s fine! I get that. You don’t give out professional hockey player’s numbers to strangers.”

        Jack gave him a weird look, his eyebrows scrunched and his mouth in a line like he was internally fighting himself. He asked for Bitty’s phone though, and Bitty passed the expression off as some odd Jack Zimmermann tendency.  

        “Here’s Tater’s email information, I can also talk to him about it if you want.”

        Bitty thanked him, and they ate their frozen yogurt in peaceful silence until Jack spoke up.

        “What line do you play on? First?”

        Bitty gaped at him, spoon halfway to his lips, “ _First_?”

        “Well, yeah. You got soft hands, you handle the puck well, you’re fast on the ice. It makes sense.”

        “In what universe?”

        Jack looked genuinely confused, “Uh…This one?”

        “No, no I mean- Ugh. I’m not even on second.”

        “Oh. Why not? You’re not  _that_  small.” His eyes twinkled.

        Bitty sent him a glare that he didn’t really mean and then looked down into his cup, “It’s…” He swirled his yogurt around. The gummy bears were swallowed up by the sprinkles, “I’m not good at handling checks…”

        Jack nodded but stayed quiet.

        “I’m not as bad as before, I don’t faint anymore, but it still hinders my playing.”

        “Have you tried working on it?”

        Bitty shrugged, “Somewhat? Playing with the guys made me get used to it a little.”

        “Maybe you need to try a clinic.”

        Jack got an eyeful of Bitty’s glare again. “I don’t think they have  _checking_ clinics, Jack.”

        “I meant with me.”

        They stared at each other. Jack’s face steadily grew more red as he sat there, mouth open like  _he_  was the surprised one. He looked down.

        “Are you being serious right now?”

        “Yes. We’ll have to find time to fit in within our schedules, but I’d be happy to do it. You’re worth the time.”

        Bitty was too stunned to form a coherent answer.

        “I’m serious.” Jack repeated. He looked Bitty in the eye.

        “…Okay.”

         “So.” Jack pulled up the calendar on his phone, “When’s the next time we’re both free? I can meet you at your school if we need to.”

~~~~~

        They walked back to the arena slowly.  The sun was slipping behind the buildings in an array of pinks, like a luxurious flower blooming across the sky. Jack stayed next to Bitty, their shoulders bumping, his hands stuffed into his pocket while Bitty talked with his. Bitty didn’t want the walk to end. Providence was peaceful and moderately quiet around them, the cars careening by and the mumbles of other people passing serving as background noise. It was almost like a real date.

          Bitty was laughing over a prank Jack and Thirdy had pulled on Tater (something involving a fire extinguisher and lacrosse sticks) when they reached the parking lot where Bitty was going to be picked up. 

          Then, the unimaginable happened: Jack offered Bitty his phone number. 

           His  _personal_  phone number.

        “Here, text me when you want to meet up.” 

        “You don’t have to give me your number, Jack.” Bitty took a step back, no longer laughing, “I know it’s a big security risk.”

         Jack raised his brow, the gesture more quizzical than flirtatious. He looked genuinely confused, “Isn’t that what people do after a first date?” 

_Oh._

        His stomach nearly fell out of him. Bitty knew he was technically “on a date” with Jack, but he thought it couldn’t be mistaken for an  _actual_  date, like, as in not-a-fan-interaction-for-charity thing. Which is what he thought this was. His poor little gay heart could not handle getting its hopes up; So, with every ounce of self preservation he could muster he said, “You do know this isn’t a real date, right?”

       Jack paused. “It wasn’t? It felt like one though, didn’t it?”

      “It did?” 

       “It did.”

      Bitty gulped. He stared up at this beautiful dark-haired hockey-boy who had seemed to reach this conclusion with little effort, no hesitation, and a smile. A  _smile_. One that Bitty had never seen him make in any interview. He decided to take a leap even though his voice would probably waver. “Well… it might have for me too.” 

      They continued their walk into the parking lot and Jack grinned, his blushing face betraying him, “I heard somewhere that people usually kiss after their first date…” 

      Bitty played along, their steps in line with each other, “Oh, did you now?”  

      “Yes, from several sources in fact.”

       _Jesus, this boy…_

     Jack didn’t give him a moment to reply; he stopped and turned to him, “So if this is a first date, can I kiss you goodbye?” His hand reached up to touch Bitty’s face, his fingers grazing his golden hair, “Or do you want to save that for after our second?” 

     “I think we can make an exception,” Bitty felt his face get hotter, his mind chanting,  _second date? Second date!!!_  and his gaze focused on Jack’s magnificent eyes, “After all, I did save your life, right?”

      Always with the chirps, Jack whispered, “And I think I owe you, yes.” And, suddenly but not suddenly at all, Jack Zimmermann had his palm against Bitty’s cheek, and his lips against his.

 _Lord almighty_ , was the single thought that cascaded through Bitty’s head as Jack’s soft mouth enticed him, pulling away for a second for him to only tilt his head and go in for more, his movements certain and delightful. Bitty was surely melting, he  _had_  to be, right into a puddle on the concrete. Either that or he was so dizzy because he forgot how to breathe.

      When they finally separated he realized that yeah, he had forgotten how to breathe.

      “I’ve been wanting to do that since you said hi.” Jack’s voice was raspy.

      Bitty let himself sigh, a sweet feeling bubbling up in his chest. His words tumbled out of him, “And I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw your ass on stage.”

      Their next kiss was harder to get through amidst their laughter, but it was just as good.

 

* * *

 

Hope you guys liked it!!!! <3 Thanks to everyone who messaged me on my tumblr, the support was so nice and it always made my day! 


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